


The Bard, The Flowers, and an Hourglass

by SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Description Heavy, First Kiss, Graphic Description of Injury, Hero Jaskier, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, No Beta, Unconscious Geralt, hurt geralt, magical flowers, worried jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28933365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight/pseuds/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight
Summary: Geralt is injured on a hunt. Jaskier must gather three flowers to save his life. There is a time constraint.“There is an ingredient I need if I am to save his life. But I do not have it, nor is it found in this town.”  Jaskeir blinks dumbly at the man, opens his mouth to say something and closes it.“In fact, I do not believe they keep it in our sister town.”“What is it? What do you need?” Desperation colors his words dripping with despair as he looks wildly between the healer and the witcher.“There is a cliff just under an hour's ride from here, at the top of the cliff is a field. In the field grows orange lilies. I need three of them, root and all. It is the only way I can think to ensure he survives. He may as it is, being a witcher, but the chances are slim. This wound is deep and I fear infection has already settled in, his heart is weak.”“I’ll go. I can get them. I’ll leave now.” He says already moving around the room, gathering what he might need.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 73





	The Bard, The Flowers, and an Hourglass

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, 
> 
> Been a while since I wrote for the Witcher. I am completely enthralled with Cursed at the moment. So I'm writing a post season one fic because we don't have any word on season 2 and because my heart said too. I've got some other plans there too so come see me! 
> 
> Anyways, I thought I should write something in this fandom since it got me into posting my work. I hope you all enjoy, Its just a nice little oneshot. Kind of angsty with a happy ending.

Jaskier hated it. He absolutely without a doubt loathed when the witcher took a dangerous contract and refused to let him come along. Never mind that he hadn't even told him where he would be and therefore where to look if he didnt come back. Normally Jaskier would just trust that Geralt was not going to get himself killed and he would play his lute, sing, dance and be merry until the witcher returned. Not tonight. Tonight could not be any more cliche in his mind. 

He stood in the darkened room he was renting and stared out the dirty window waiting for the witchers return. The skin around his nails ached from being picked at and torn while he stared out the window into a dark and writhing tempest. The sky rent open with lightning and the wind ushered to and fro by thunder. The clouds in the sky swirled forebodingly and ominous moving as restless as Jaskier soul. The witcher had seemed concerned about this contract. Something had to be off about it, of that Jaskier was certain. He had informed Jaskier that he would be gone for a minimum of 4 days. It was the fifth night and there was no sign of the witcher. 

Jaskier had spent the last three nights playing music. That was his profession after all, no sense in squandering opportunity. He had played the fourth evening as well, though not as late. When Geralt hadn't returned, he'd walked to the town gate and waited in the dark, cloak pulled tight against the sting of spring air. He hadn't slept since against his better judgment and failed attempts. 

He couldn't recall all of the details, only that Geralt would have to pass through a very old swamp on the edge of a lake, likely filled with drowners, echinops (if the rumors he'd heard were true) and a variety of other things he didn't want to think of. Of course Geralt could have gone around it, since his contract was to take out an Archgriffin that was pestering a number of farms at the base of the mountain range and near the edge of the swamp. Instead the Witcher was, Jaskier was very certain, being foolish and going straight through it instead of around like all of the normal sane people. Jaskier could hear the excuse clearly in his head, "I need to know how bad the swamp is. Might need to bring the others next spring." Of course Geralt would. How dare he just do the task at hand and move on. For all his airs he really was a good man, better than the people gave him credit for and better than most deserved. 

So now, Jaskier is staring out the window of his room in the middle of the night as the first of the spring storms rage, waiting for the bastard to come back. With a sigh and worried eyes, Jaskier pushes away from the window and paces the length of the drafty room instead. The fire roaring in the hearth doing nothing to stave off the chill of rain and night, or the dispare growing every hour in his gut. It sends chills down his spine, so he tries to focus on anything but his missing friend. Maybe he got laid up by the weather, that was certainly a possibility. Still, that it was going to take him 4 days to complete the contract had seemed odd, and he had hoped that it would be significantly less time. Instead it had been the opposite. 

The distractions he attempts to conjure don't last long. His mind is fixated on the witcher, not uncommon these days, he thinks. He returns to his vigil and watches the darkness on the edge of town. It's nearing 2 in the morning and he knows he really needs to sleep. He can feel it in his body. He's too tightly wound to try though so he remains at his self appointed post. He blinks bleary eyes and squints at movement caught on the edge of darkness. He turns his head to follow the shape more fully. 

"That looks like Roach” His mind supplies as the shape takes the form of a horse and single rider, a silhouette against the black of night. “Oh no." He tears across the room, down the hall and takes the steps two at a time. He pulls the inn door open and darts into the downpour without a second thought. He sprints through the mud slipping and sliding all the way. By the time he reaches the witcher and his stead, his fears begin to come true. Geralt is injured, badly and barely astride Roach. Panicked he does everything he can to keep Geralt in the saddle until they reach the stable. There is nothing but the deafening roar of wind and thunder in his ears, the hammering of his heart in his chest as the rain stings his face. 

Inside the stable Geralt falls uselessly from Roaches saddle and the stablehand, woken by Jaskiers shouts, jumps to action tending to the mare. He can see that her rider is badly injured, blood oozes from a tear in his armor, and he can’t even stand upright. Jaskeir ducks under Geralt's arm and uses his own around the witchers back to support him. It’s everything he has to get the man to their room, he's practically dragging him along by the time they reach the top of the stairs. Geralt's legs have gone limp and he’s barely standing. Huffing with exertion, Jaskier barely manages to get the white haired man to the chair and starts undoing his armor with dexterous fingers and practiced ease, before he slumps unconscious. 

This is the epitome of not good. Jaskier will have to go for a healer, but first he will do what he can to stop the bleeding. The armor comes away quickly followed by Geralt's undershirt and the flickering light of hastily lit candles is not enough to tend to the mottled, torn, and bloodied flesh of his friend. Jaskier pushes down the horror in his throat and investigates the wounds as well as he can. The gash is long, it stretches from right hip bone up and over Geralt's left shoulder, diagonally across his chest, and stops just under his shoulder blade. There are large chunks of skin and muscle torn away and flapping loosely now that armor and shirt have been removed. And Jaskier is certain he can see Geralt's ribs; and is that what a stomach looks like? He swallows against the nausea that assaults him at the sight and sets to cleaning the wound. He bites his tongue and clenches his teeth to keep from vomiting as he works. The wound will be bandaged and he will administer a dose of Swallow and then go for a healer. This is the only thing Jaskier can do for his friend now.

Geralt opens his eyes and groans with the pain, which is a good sign. Quickly Jaskier pushes the vial of Swallow, the most important potion, the only potion Geralt had actively taken the time to show him and explain about, to the witcher's lips and he drinks understandingly. His eyes are hazy and Jaskier knows that he needs to get him to the bed now or he will be lying on the floor to recover, so he resumes his position under Geralt's shoulder and tugs until the larger man pushes himself to his feet and stubbles in the direction Jaskier leads him. It's everything he can do to keep his injured partner upright so he can bandage the wound and as soon as he is done he heads back out into the onslaught of rain and wind. 

There isn’t time to consider that donning his cloak would have been wise. Instead he rushes in the direction of the town's healer. It had not taken him many weeks of traveling with the witcher to learn that the first thing he should do upon arriving in a new town was inquire as to where the healer lived. And this time, like so many times before it had become a piece of information he wished he didn’t need. As he ran through the muddied streets he slipped and fell into the water and mud, dirtying his stockings and doublet. He was completely drenched, shivering and covered in filth by the time he made it to the house. Knocking loudly and insistently his teeth rattled in the cold and his knees knocked together. After what felt an eternity the man opened the door. One look at the bard and he knew the witcher was injured. Jaskier was invited to stand in the entryway while the physician dressed quickly and haphazardly and gathered his supplies. 

“How bad is the injury?” He asked, calm and composed in the face of emergency. 

“It stretches from the back of his shoulder across his chest to his right hip bone. I- I can see his ribs in places and I think his stomach. I did my best to clean and bandage it before I came but I’m not a healer.” He stutters out between involuntary shivers. 

Regis, it turns out is rather spry despite his looks and old age and they make it to the inn rather quickly. Despite the speed of their travel the doctor too is soaked and shivering when they arrive. It doesn’t stop him from following quickly and silently on Jaskies heels as he takes the stairs two at a time and jogs down the hall to their room. Jaskier steps to the side and stays out of the way as the physician moves towards his patient. Only, in the shadowy and flickering light of the room it almost seems like a predator advancing on prey, and in a way he supposes that is exactly the nature of physician and patient. When Regis asks him to bring the other chair over to the bedside to act as a makeshift table he does so without hesitating. It’s easy to follow the orders of someone so calm. 

Regis is the epitome of calm under pressure. He doesn’t flinch away from the carnage of Geralt's torso, doesn’t blink at the vast quantities of blood loss. The physician doesn’t so much as sweat as he works. Finally, Jaskier thinks to inform him that he gave the witcher a vial of swallow, that he knows that another needs to be administered in 4 hours. Geralt had been clear with him about this. It was important when they were on the road miles from help. The witcher hadn’t wanted to disclose the information at all. He had wanted the bard to leave him be and go away, but when it was clear that that wasn’t going to happen and he had been injured a little too seriously one to many times, he accepted that he had help and gave up the information begrudgingly. Regis only hums at him, sideburns twitching with the motion. Jaskier can’t keep up with anything that the man is doing, he moves almost inhumanly fast. But now, as he finishes cleaning the wound his face draws grimm and he looks to the distressed bard. 

Jaskier swallows, he knows this look. He has seen it before on physicians and healers when someone is near death. He runs a shaky hand through dripping hair and pushes it out of his face, waiting. The action does nothing to calm his nerves. 

“There is an ingredient I need if I am to save his life. But I do not have it, nor is it found in this town.” Jaskeir blinks dumbly at the man, opens his mouth to say something and closes it. 

“In fact, I do not believe they keep it in our sister town.” 

“What is it? What do you need?” Desperation colors his words dripping with despair as he looks wildly between the healer and the witcher. 

“There is a cliff just under an hour's ride from here, at the top of the cliff is a field. In the field grows orange lilies. I need three of them, root and all. It is the only way I can think to ensure he survives. He may as it is, being a witcher, but the chances are slim. This wound is deep and I fear infection has already settled in, his heart is weak.” 

“I’ll go. I can get them. I’ll leave now.” He says already moving around the room, gathering what he might need. 

“The road will take you through the edge of the swamp. Then you must climb the cliff face, there is no path to the top. And Bard,” He turns to meet Regis eyes, they flicker in the candle light and it sends a shiver of fear down his spine. His feet stay planted to the ground where he is and he waits, unmoving, for Regis to finish. “He doesn’t have long, no more than three hours. And the magic in the lilies will only last for one, once they have been uprooted.” 

He stares at the man, this harbinger of death. He is no physician, he is Charon waiting to usher the dead to the afterlife. Still, this is the best chance he has at saving his friend, the man he loves. With a firm nod he gathers his knife and cloak and a bag to put the flowers in and turns back to Regis.

“Three hours?” The physician gives a nod, and as if summoned by magic, produces an hourglass. It was larger than a normal one and Jaskier suspectes it is magic. With a grim smile Regis turns it and the time begins. The physician set back to work and Jaskier raced to Roaches side. 

+++++

“Roach my dear, I am so sorry about this, but I need your help. You and I both know that Geralt is right and Pegasus is slow as molasses. You’ll help me won’t you? To save Geralt.” His voice is harsh with worry. He knows that Geralt speaks to her often and he has no idea if she even understands but she is amenable to him as she stomps, almost impatiently and whinnies. He moves quickly to saddle her and she's ready to move as soon as he climbs into the saddle. 

The rain drops stings like bolts of fire as they pelt against his exposed skin. He squints against the wind and the thousands of ice spears. It’s everything he can to keep hold of Roaches reigns, his fingers have long since gone numb. The road is dark before him and Roach gallops onward into the void before them, following the road as it turns and bends and finally dips into the swamp. He doesn't have time to be concerned with wolves or other creatures of the night. He doesn’t have time to fear what he does not know, or the possibility that he may need to fight the creatures of the swamp. He leans forward over the mare's chestnut mane and ignores the pain in his joints from the cold, or the whipping around of his clothes and hair as the wind sends shutters through the trees. Blowing over those too old and rotten to stand strong against the gales. Branches fly around him and he knows that he is insane. That this entire quest is insane and yet he can’t bear the thought of Geralt dead. Of not having at least tried to save him by gathering the lilies. There is no room for fear or thought as he focuses on trying to remain alive and press on towards the cliff. 

Steam rises off Roach in puffs of mists. Her nostrils flare and blow steam as she snorts at the shadows surrounding them. The woods are alive and foreboding caging them in on both sides; he doesn't know the road but he knows to keep going. He prays to the gods that he makes it, that Geralt makes it. And presses onwards ignoring the feeling of being watched, of being stalked. Roach seems to know what is happening and carries him quickly out of the grasp of enemies he cannot see. Though he can feel the brush of claws, the breath of a monster too close to his flesh. 

Finally the cliffs come into sight and Jaskeir could whoop with glee. He stumbles as he dismounts and barely manages to steady himself by placing a hand on Roaches shoulder. He aches muscles tight from the ride and the constant shivering. He adjusts the now soaked satchel over his shoulder and the dagger he had brought with him in its sheath. Hesitantly he assesses the cliffside and shudders. Slowly he wraps his arms around himself to brace against the cold and his fear. There is no way he can scale the cliffside, none at all. He doesn’t know what he was thinking. Sure he had to try, but now he was here in the dark and the cold and the wind swirling around him and he knows with numb fingers and toes he can’t even attempt to climb the cliffside. It's sheer and steep and flowing with waterfalls and rivulets of ice cold water. Looking at it he isn't even certain he has the strength to climb it. 

He steps forwards towards the cliff and stretches out a shaking hand. 

“Get a grip Jaskier. If you don’t do this… if you don’t do this, Geralt will die. You have to try. You have too.”

Slowly he steps forward and stretches up, taking hold of the moss covered rocks and sharp edges and pulling himself up. He pushes up with his feet and they to find footholds. Craning his head backwards he tries to look for the next handhold and fails, the rain stinging his eyes. Instead he closes them and reaches blindly. He looks down and gets an idea of where he can put his feet to support his weight, but knows he can’t let himself think about how far he could fall. He swallows down his nervousness, fingers convulsing around the rock ledge in his hand. As he climbs he recites tales he had heard ages ago to himself. He needs to keep his mind focused but his heart hammers in his chest and his breathing comes out in ragged puffs as he pulls himself further up the cliffside. He’s halfway up when his worst fear seems as though it will come true. He loses his grip with his right hand and left foot simultaneously. He screams and scrambles to find purchase anywhere among the rough and jagged edges. He feels stone slice into the palm of his left hand as he manages to catch his right foot on an outcropping of stone.

He pulls himself as close to the solid formation of the cliff, irregular edges digging into his chest and hips. He rests his forehead against the stone and gulps down lungfuls of air. Rainwater drips down his neck, trails down his spine and shivers again. When he has settled himself enough he begins climbing again. He tucks his chin to his chest and grits his teeth against the exhaustion and the pain. The ends of his fingers are beginning to come raw as the calluses of many years playing are pulled away from the skin. His muscles twitch with every heave and pull against gravity as he lifts himself inch by inch up the side of the cliff. Finally he pulls himself over the edge and onto a bed of soaking wet grass. 

With his eyes closed he breathes deeply forcing his heart rate to steady. He can’t feel the rain as it falls against his skin or the brush of grass. He can’t feel the wind whipping around him slicing into his skin. It takes every ounce of his consciousness not to fall asleep where he is and to sit up instead. He casts his gaze around the clearing, skin buzzing with electricity as he crawls towards the blossoms whisking in the wind, twisting, twirling and fluttering to and fro. When he reaches the nearest one he pulls the knife out and sets to work cutting the flower from the ground and shoves it into the satchel. He repeats the process twice more and makes his way back to the cliff edge. 

Fear causes him to hesitate with his legs over the edge. The ground is very far away and he can barely make Roach out among the trees below him. He bandages his palm as best he can and turns onto his stomach. He doesn’t have a choice now. He must climb back down the cliff and he knows that the trip down will be far more difficult than the climb up. His feet slip at the initial contact of sole against stone and it takes a moment for him to regain his composure and try again. The rain slick rocks and hurricane like wind around him distract him from the slowly lightening sky. Looking down he tries to move quickly finding holes for his feet and ledges for his hands. He slips several times as the burning in his fingers and toes and calves increases. Still he pushes himself to climb faster. He doesn’t know how long he has been gone, but he knows he has been gone too long already. 

Roach snorts below him and he turns his head over his shoulder to see her, but can’t make out what has her distraught as she stomps around and circles. He hadn’t tied her up, she was too well trained to go wandering far. Turning his head back to the stones he seeks out another foothold and misses, the ache in his shoulders is too much and he falls. Spots color his vision as he looks up at the cliffside, the coppery taste of blood sits on his tongue and his side aches. The throbbing in his arm catches his attention and he manages with a hoarse groan to look at it. White bone, covered in blood sticks through the sleeve of his doublet. The darkness consumes him. 

When he comes too Roach is nuzzling his forehead and prodding at his chest. He raises an arm to bat her away or pet her and yelps. It comes back to him in a rush, Geralt, the climb, the fall, and the time constraint. Looking at the sky he notes that it is still dark, It’s a good sign, but he has lost time. Agony threatens to rip him apart as he forces himself to his feet. He cradles his arm close to his chest and struggles to mount Roach. They need to fly, speed is the only thing that will save Geralt now, and that's all that matters to Jaskier. All this time and he had never told the man how much he meant to him. That he loves him. Choking back tears of heartbreak and physical pain, he nudges Roach into a trot and then a gallop. It is excruciating, every jostle, every movement in time with her steps sends ripples of pain from his arm to his brain. He bites down on his lower lip until he draws blood to keep from crying out. 

The swamp seems more dangerous now than it had before and he isn't sure why. The tempest has begun to die down and he can see that the road is clear. The shadows surrounding it are still, eerily so and he flicks his eyes hither and there attempting to scan for danger. He knows that anything predatory can likely smell his blood and fear and so he tries to calm himself. It’s no use his stomach is in knots, he’s exhausted, his best friend is dying and he might be too late to save him. All he can do is lean forward on Roach and pray for a miracle. A felled tree on the road threatens to bar their way but Jaskier nudges Roach on and she jumps it with ease. He screams, his arm, his ribs, his head and all of his muscles protest the movements and nothing but adrenaline is keeping him going. Nothing but the knowledge that if he does not get there that Geralt will die, and he likely will too. He nearly slips from her saddle as the pain keeps him from focusing on the necessity of riding. Finally the town begins to come into view and Roach seems instinctively to go faster. The poor girl is at her breaking point; he's certain, as cold and wet as he is, exhausted from carrying Geralt and himself and still despite her heaving breaths and frothing mouth she carries on dutifully. Absently he thinks to make sure she is given extra oats and to sneak her some sugar cubes or an apple or two when Geralt isn't looking. 

He slips from her saddle much the same way Geralt had and when the stable hand sees him he cuts off his ranting and stares. Jaskier moves past him and knows that he will attend to Roach, he will pay the man well tomorrow. There are more important issues to be dealt with now. He pushes himself along the wall, vision swimming and crawls up the stairs and down the hall. At their door he pushes himself to his feet and unlatches the door. Regis looms before him just on the other side. The man's eyes flash over him and he steps back to let the bard in. 

“How is he?” Jaskeir manages strained and hoarse and stuttered by exhaustion as he removes the satchel and hands it to the physician. He looks at the hourglass and lets out a heavy sigh, there is still sand in the top. He had made it. 

“Alive yet. Change and sit by the fire. I’ll tend you next.” Moving on instinct Jaskier does as he is told. He feels compelled to obey this man and so he struggles out of his soiled clothing and pulls on a long night shirt and sits in front of the fire. He could sleep if not for the pain and the fear still echoing in every fibre of his being. Regis is grinding the flowers, adding water and other ingredients. The movement makes Jaskiers head swim and he leans over on the floor, stretches out on his back and takes deep breaths. 

When he wakes the sun is high in the sky and Regis is sitting at the table calm and collected and dressed differently than he had been. There is a pillow beneath his head and a mountain of blankets over him. Taking a moment to gather himself Jaskier sits up using his unbound arm. His head is no longer swimming and he takes that as a good sign. 

“Geralt?” He tries and fails but Regis looks at him knowingly. He doesn’t have a voice, he can feel the constriction in his throat. He has a cold. He sniffles and stares at the grey haired man. 

“The Witcher will be fine, and so will you. You made it in time. Though you seem to have done some substantial damage to yourself in the process.” Ancient eyes bore into him as they pointedly look to his arm and chest and then back up. Jaskier feels the need to join him at the table so slowly he finds his feet and wobbles unsteadily to the empty chair across from him. He braces on its back and manages to find his way into it without collapsing too much. Leaning forward he rests his weight on his good arm, and holds the other protectively to his chest.

“Fell on my way back down the cliff.” 

“I can tell.” The physician lips quirk up on the corners. “You have several broken ribs and your side and back are bruised heavily. You're lucky not to have fallen further or you would be unable to walk.” The man pours him a glass of water and he takes it gratefully. Sitting back he sips at it thoughtfully and lets his gaze slide past him to Geralt. 

“He may stay unconscious a few days, I recommend poppy milk and bed rest until he is completely healed. Perhaps more of that potion of his.” Nodding slowly he manages to croak, 

“There wasn’t much time left in the hourglass.” 

“No. But there was enough.” 

That isn’t as reassuring as he would have liked it to be. His throat constricts with an ache and tears threaten to spill down his face. It has been a very long couple of days and he wants nothing more than to curl up beside the witcher and sleep. But there are things he must do today. He must speak to the stable hand and thank him, and to the innkeeper as well. 

“The stablehand and the innkeeper came to check on you both this morning. He seemed overly concerned about you, and he thought that the innkeeper should make sure he didn’t have two dead patrons in his establishment. He thought you were a ghost when you came in soaked through, pale, and with a bone sticking out of your body. They’ve agreed not to bother you until tomorrow at my insistence.” 

“Thank you, Regis. Uhm…” 

“Yes?” Blue eyes drift to his broken arm, his strumming arm. 

“How long until I can play again? I will be able to play again, right? And how long do you think Geralt will be,” he coughs hard and his eyes water as his ribs move freely despite the bandages around his waist, “ Unconscious?” He wheezes out. 

“Give your arm six to eight weeks. It will take time for the bone to heal properly. You should also wear it in a sling. I’ve treated several witchers before and each healed differently. It could be a couple days or it could be over a week. He was badly injured. The lillies and Swallow will do their jobs. I had best be going, I have other patients to see but I’ll be back to check in tomorrow morning. If he starts to wake, give him two drops of this.” The physician waves a vial of white liquid in front of him and he nods, “Take some too if you need. A drop only.” And with that the physician leaves. Mustering enough energy, Jaskier stands and makes his way to the bed on shaky legs, he sits beside the witcher and runs fingers through milk white strands. He doesn’t have the energy to cry so he lays down and sleeps instead. 

++++++++

It’s three days before the witcher wakes and when he does he is on high alert. Regis has gone for the day and Jaskier is sitting at the table picking at lunch and trying to compose song lyrics. It’s much harder without his instrument. Looking up at the rustle of fabric Jaksier locks eyes with Geralt as he sits up and reaches for a sword that isn’t by the bed. 

“Geralt!” He yelps and the witcher blinks at him. 

“Jaskier” rasps the older and still badly injured man, “How did I get back here. Who has been here? It smells like…. A vampire?” Geralt's gasps and reaches for his chest. And then looks back to the bard taking him in. “What happened to you? And why am I not dead.” 

“A vampire, Geralt. I think you’ve hit your head. The only other person to be here is Regis, the town physician. Roach brought you back unconscious and injured four days ago. You’ve been unconscious since. You were nearly dead, Geralt,” He chokes and breathes in deeply through his nose, fights back the aching that the words leave in his chest. “I had to go and get an ingredient he needed to save you. Orange lilies but they only grew at the top of a cliff and I fell on the way back down. I’m alright though, just a broken arm and some banged up ribs. You on the other hand. Dear gods what happened, I could see your ribs, and your organs.” 

The walk to the bed isn't a long one and he makes it much more steadily than he had the first few days. Regis had come back with some herbs for his cold and it had cleared up miraculously fast. In part, Regis said, to the herbs, and in part to the amount that Jaskier was sleeping. It was a lot, even he acknowledged that, but it felt good and he was content to lay beside Geralt and hear his heart beat steady and rhythmically in his chest. Very much alive and not dead. 

“God, I was worried you’d die. You can't ever do that to me again Geralt. Do you understand? I don’t think I could handle it if you died like that. Bleeding out in my arms. I can’t. Geralt… Geralt why are you looking at me like that?” 

“You could have died saving me.” 

“Yes but I didn’t.” He can’t help the sweet smile that graces his lips, it's small and sad but he wants to convey everything he can in it. 

“You could have, and I don’t think I could handle that too well now.” 

“And why is that. Am I finally worthy of being considered your friend?” He doesn’t mean for it to be a jab, or to cause pain, but it does and he can see it in Geralt's golden irises, pupils shrunk to avoid the light, it’s so utterly enthralling he can’t tear his gaze away until calloused fingers brush his cheek. 

“Youre so much more than that to me.” Geralt whispers, agonizingly soft in the midday light of the room and Jaskiers heart beat picks up, hammering in his chest. He wonders if the witcher can hear it, rattling around in there like it has far more room than it actually does. But then Geralt continues and he could shout for the joy that fills his being. “And I wonder, if I am to you.” 

Every pretense went out the window. Every reason he believed he couldn’t have this, that it would never exist, that it wasn't a good idea went with it, because in that moment, in that room, sitting beside one another all that mattered was the truth and so he spoke, truely and clearly.

“You are. I would have died happily to save you because I love you, Geralt.” Any further words are hushed by uncertain, dry chapped lips, against his own. It’s not the best kiss he has ever shared, but it is the most important.


End file.
